Evolution
by Flaignhan
Summary: Things are different, but he's not sure how.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is very much a fic of two separate halves. I haven't written the second half yet but it's getting on for midnight and unless I steam through it in the next hour it probably won't be up until tomorrow night. Had trouble with the title and summary of this one. It applies more to the second half so do stick around for that. This isn't just it. It's very much just not it. Also, I'm gonna continue to plug my tumblr, because it worked a treat last time. I'm flaignhan there too. Link in profile, etc.

* * *

**Evolution**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He's glad to be out of the house. Tomorrow is going to be shit. He knows it. She won't like what he's gotten her, even though she's spent the last six weeks saying 'whatever you get me will be _fine_' in that voice that says 'if you don't get me _exactly_ what I want, you'll be unwrapping a divorce'. No pressure, really.

Apart from all that, there's going to be booze at this little get-together, John assured him of that when he invited him. It's not that _he_ needs a drink, (although a generous glass of scotch wouldn't go amiss) it's that he's never seen _Sherlock_ drink. Or, more specifically, Sherlock _drunk_. Yes, he's seen him after he's been drugged by a dominatrix (normal day that was) and yes, in his younger days, he'd seen Sherlock be pulled in for a few things that have since been swept under the carpet, but merry drunk? He's never seen that. He's never seen Sherlock _jolly_.

Without fair warning, an image of Sherlock materialises in his head, red suit, white beard, hearty chuckle and rosy cheeks.

Greg stops, administers some mind bleach, and then continues walking, repressing a shudder. Maybe he doesn't want to see Sherlock _jolly_. But happy would be nice. Happiness that isn't triggered by a rush of adrenalin that comes with the thrill of a new puzzle. Happiness because at this time of year, _everyone_ should be happy.

When he arrives at the front door, it is ajar, just a fraction, and the note under the knocker says 'Come up'. There is a little smiley face with a Santa hat doodled underneath it, and it doesn't take a genius to work out that it wasn't Sherlock who wrote that one.

The flat is wonderfully warm after the cold chill of his walk. The fire is roaring in the grate, and a mouthful of whiskey sees that he is warmed from the inside out. John introduces him to his girlfriend, and he spends a short while making vague small talk, before Sherlock eventually stalks in to join the party. John passes him a cup of tea and Greg feels his face contort into a frown of disappointment.

"Not drinking?" he asks.

"I don't think that's wise, do you?" Sherlock says darkly. "Given past events."

"Oh," Greg says. "Right."

He estimates that around eighty-seven per cent of the fun this evening had to offer has evaporated. He can't really argue though. Sherlock is, after all, doing the right thing.

John refills his glass and Jeanette appears with a tray of large mince pies. Greg helps himself to one and sits down. As he bites into the pie, he thinks the night might not be so bad after all.

* * *

She never had children, but she's making up for it now. The windows all have fairy lights around them and there are presents under the tree. She's gotten Sherlock a lovely pair of slippers, because he must get chilly walking around in just his dressing gown all the time. She's also gotten him a big pack of tupperware boxes, for all his experiments, because leaving them open in the fridge isn't right. Not right at all.

The gifts are sitting under the Christmas tree. She'd tried to get him to help her decorate but his only input had been to tell her when the branches were wonky. After a few minutes, he'd quickly grown bored and gone off to the kitchen to make a lot of noise.

Now though, she wants to show him off, like a proud mother. Because apart from the deducting and the sharpness and intellect that is about the same size as his ego, he's actually very talented boy.

"Go on, Sherlock," she says. "Please? For me?"

"Perhaps later," he says, taking a sip of his tea. "Everyone's talking."

Mrs Hudson's shoulders droop, her hopeful smile dropping. He fixes her with a piercing stare, before placing his cup back on his saucer and putting it on the table.

"Fine," he says. "Fine."

He picks up his violin and begins to play. Mrs Hudson claps her hands together, while John's snooty girlfriend raises an eyebrow. The inspector looks up, mildly surprised, and Mrs Hudson sits back in her chair, smiling broadly, her hands clasped in her lap. It always amazes her when he plays. It's as though he's not even thinking about playing, as though he picks up the violin, tucks it under his chin and his hands immediately know what to do. Never has she heard a foul note (apart from when he's trying to drive people out of the flat) and never has he forgotten a piece midway, despite never looking at the sheet music.

Oh yes, if he were her boy, she'd be very proud of him indeed. She _is_ very proud of him regardless. But still the little bit of her that always longed for children wishes she could have nurtured a tiny human into a wonderful adult.

She makes do with Sherlock though, and that's more than enough.

As he finishes playing, she breaks into applause. "Oh that was _lovely_, Sherlock," she says as he puts his violin back on the stand. He offers her a brief smile before picking up his tea again.

Perhaps, if she's lucky, he shall play once more before the night is out.

* * *

He almost chokes on his beer when she takes her coat off. He had no idea that under that lab coat there had been a waist, and hips, and a small, but perfectly lovely chest. For the first time, he thinks to himself that Sherlock could do worse. A hell of a lot worse.

Sherlock's being irritable with everyone, and when John tells Molly about his sister finally sorting herself out, Sherlock has to spoil it.

Deep down, John knows that this is just the latest in a long line of Harry's attempts to give up the booze. She'll be fine for a week, perhaps two if she's feeling really determined, but then life will be unkind, or difficult, or frustrating, or just _there_, and she'll pick up a bottle without even _trying_ to think of an alternative. John _knows_ this. Which is why the only reason that Sherlock remains un-punched is the fact that it's Christmas, and they have guests, and he wouldn't want Jeanette to think he's some sort Neanderthal brute who solves everything with his fists.

But then again, after the name débâcle, perhaps a fist to the face is exactly the sort of thing that will ensure that Jeanette stays the night.

Before he can weigh up the pros and cons, Sherlock has turned on Molly.

"Take a day off," he tells him, as Greg sweeps in with large glass of whiskey and puts it in front of Sherlock. John frowns. It almost looks as though Greg's trying to get Sherlock _drunk_.

"Shut up and have a drink," he says, but Sherlock ignores him. He continues to reduce Molly to _nothing_ as his speech speeds up, and he stands, approaching her. It's like he wants to really nail it home that just because it's Christmas, it doesn't mean she can be happy, and she _especially_ can't be happy when it's the one thing that Sherlock doesn't know how to do.

John looks around, because surely, _surely,_ he can't be the only one that knows that _that dress_ is for Sherlock. The present on top of the pile with the ribbon, _that's_ for Sherlock, and the bow in her hair, the lipstick, the _effort_, it's all for Sherlock. Mrs Hudson is watching with a worried frown, as though she wants to look away. Greg is downing the last of his whiskey. Even Jeanette, who has only met Molly for the first time this evening, _knows_.

Sherlock plucks the present from the bag and starts to inspect it.

"- obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."

John feels as though someone's just thrown a bucket of icy water over him. He can't imagine what Molly must be feeling. Everyone is frozen in position, as though time has stopped purely to let everyone take a moment to realise what a heartless _bastard_ Sherlock really is.

But they all already knew that anyway.

But then something amazing happens. Molly Hooper, who won't say boo to a goose, who flusters over the smallest of things, manages to hold it together after being torn apart like a carcass in a lion's cage. She doesn't lose her composure, doesn't shed a tear, and then she speaks.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time, always..._always._"

What happens next is even more amazing. John can barely believe his eyes, and then calls into doubt whether his ears are functioning properly. And then he wonders if his entire brain has decided to play one huge trick on him because actually, it's not Christmas, it's April Fool's Day, and this all a big joke.

Sherlock swallows, takes a few nervous steps, and then finally meets Molly's gaze.

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

John resists the urge to drop his jaw as he looks between the two of them. Sherlock steps forward, closer to Molly, so close that John thinks that he might _kiss her_.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

And he does. He presses his lips softly against Molly's cheek, and she stands there, shell shocked, while they all watch in silence.

And then his phone goes.

It might have been funny, were it not for the fact that Molly's wine glass is shaking in her hand. Within minutes, Sherlock has shut himself in his bedroom, and Molly is making her way to the kitchen, presumably to get a hefty refill. The poor girl deserves it after all.

Jeanette pokes him in the side, and he looks down at her. She nods towards the kitchen, where Molly is leaning against the counter, hand over her face, shoulders shaking.

"Oh no..." Mrs Hudson says. "Oh no..."

Greg sets down his glass and moves over to Molly, pulling her into a hug when he reaches her. She sobs into his chest and an uncomfortable lump forms in John's throat.

"All right..." Greg says quietly, rubbing her back. "It's all right..."

"Don't take it -" John starts to say, then realises how stupid it is. How can she take it any way _other_ than personally? What is the size of her mouth and breasts, if not personal? "You know how he is, he's not worth getting upset over, he's really not."

Greg leans back from Molly and tilts her chin up so he can meet her eyes. "What John's _trying_ to say, is that he's a _dick_."

Molly laughs.

"Yes," John says, nodding emphatically. "That is _absolutely_ what I'm trying to say."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Part two! And now I can sleep. Thanks to those of you who reviewed the first half of this. You're all very very lovely. Got something special coming soon for my 100th fic. Get over to tumblr to see what's going down because there's no way I'm going to be able to contain all of my excitement.

* * *

**Evolution**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Things are different. He's just not sure how. Obviously Sherlock's _alive_ again, but apart from that. Maybe it's just because Susan's gone for good now. Maybe it's because he feels like he has his freedom back.

But everyone else seems happy too. He's not used to that; everyone being happy. It's almost like it's too good to be true. It's a mood that certainly doesn't suit the morgue at any rate.

"Inspector," Sherlock greets him with a nod, then turns back to the hefty corpse on the slab.

Greg grimaces, because Molly is up to her forearms in organs, and Sherlock is watching intently, his hands clasped behind him, like a schoolboy trying to refrain from touching a museum exhibit. He's standing very close to Molly, who looks up at Greg and smiles. He expects to see a blush gracing her cheeks, but actually, she's completely calm. Perhaps it's because she's concentrating on her job, rather than Sherlock, but Greg doesn't think so.

Either she's over him, or she's been under him, he decides. One or the other. No alternatives.

"Can you pass us the kidney dish?" Molly asks.

Sherlock walks over to the trolley, takes the dish, and holds it out for her.

Greg can't believe what he's seeing.

Molly drops one, two, three, small round metal balls into the dish, and Sherlock returns it to the trolley.

"Where's John?" he asks. Maybe this will offer up a few clues.

"Out with..." Sherlock trails off.

"Julia," Molly finishes.

"Julia," Sherlock repeats, like some sort of well dressed parrot.

"So he's not on the case then?"

"What case?"

Lestrade looks down at the body, then up at Sherlock. "This one?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "This isn't a case."

"So...why are _you_ here?"

"Bored," he says simply. He picks up the folder from the lower shelf of the trolley and flips it open. "History of heart disease...heavy smoker...heavy drinker..." he glances towards the body, "heavy everything by the looks of it."

"Heart attack," Molly says. "But he's fairly young for that so just making sure."

"What about the stuff you just pulled out of him?"

Molly's cheeks redden now, and Sherlock is smirking. They're having a private bloody joke. Greg can't help but feel like the rug's been pulled from under him. Everything about this is so different that it feels _wrong_.

"Molly's bracelet got caught," Sherlock says. "She's spent the last hour fishing all the pieces out." He leans over her shoulder, his body almost flush against hers, and peers down into the considerable depths of the deceased's guts. "You've missed one. Just under the small intestine."

Greg can't help but feel as though he's imposing, and he's long since forgotten what he came down here to ask.

"I'll er...leave you two alone then, shall I?"

He turns around and walks straight back out of the morgue, without so much as a 'see you later' from Sherlock or Molly.

* * *

Far too often, a lump forms in her throat when she looks at him. Tears well in her eyes. She's just being silly, she knows that. But she's so very _very_ relieved to have him home. She's not sure whether she's grown more tolerant of his ways since he returned, or whether he's learned to be more tolerable. Either way, their arguments are few and far between these days.

It's nice that Molly's round more often too. John's girlfriends always come and go so often that Mrs Hudson's not sure which one's which these days. But Molly's a constant. It's nice to have a girl around the house, and Molly's so lovely which makes it all the nicer. She helps with the tea, always invites Mrs Hudson to have dinner with them, and, on top of that, Sherlock's better behaved when she's around.

She'd love for the two of them to settle down. Sherlock deserves to be happy, after everything he's been through, and Molly's a very good match for him.

"I've got some banoffee pie," Molly says in a hushed voice. "Would you like some?"

Mrs Hudson is on the verge of saying no; she's put on one and a half pounds in the last week and it's all very slippery slope. But then Molly opens the box and Mrs Hudson coos like a pigeon at the sight of the pie.

"I'll take that as a yes," Molly says. "Don't let Sherlock know. He'll say all sorts of horrible things."

"Like what, dear?"

"Like how many calories are in it," Molly snorts. "As if I care. At least I _don't_ care...until he points it out."

Mrs Hudson takes the piece of pie Molly passes her. "Well even so, you'd not swap him for the world, would you?"

Molly smiles softly as she lifts her piece of pie, precariously balanced on a knife, from the foil tray and onto her plate. "No, probably not," she says.

Mrs Hudson's about to probe for more details, like how long they've been together, and how serious they are, and whether Sherlock's mentioned marriage yet, when Sherlock himself walks in, the sound of his footsteps muffled by his socks. She supposes her questions can wait until later.

"Don't," Molly says, through a mouthful of pie, "just don't."

Sherlock, who is at the sink, filling the kettle, turns around. "What?"

"You."

"What d'you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

Sherlock shakes his head, and turns back, placing the kettle on its stand and flicking the switch. Mrs Hudson catches the corner of his mouth lift upwards in a small smirk, and she is intrigued.

"Over an hour of stomach crunches," Sherlock says. "Or a thirty minute jog."

"How many calories will I burn if I murder you?"

Mrs Hudson nearly chokes on her pie. Sherlock turns around, his eyes alight with amusement.

"That depends entirely on the method."

"Bludgeoning."

"Well, naturally that's one of the more energetic ways to kill someone, but there are all sorts of variables that would need to be considered."

"Like?" Molly asks mildly, before shovelling another fork load of pie into her mouth.

"Like how heavy the instrument you're bludgeoning me with is. Or whether you intend to hide my body, or just leave me at the scene. Carrying a dead weight burns a lot of calories you know."

Mrs Hudson puts her plate down on the counter. She's not so keen on the pie anymore.

"What else?"

"Well, you'd have to take into account my reaction. If I put up a fight and you _somehow_ manage to overpower me -"

"Could happen," Molly says with a shrug.

"-that would burn an awful lot of calories too. Or...if I ran. Would you be able to catch me with your considerably shorter legs? And a belly full of pie?"

"I think Corrie's about to start, I'll pop back downstairs to watch it, shall I?"

Mrs Hudson leaves the kitchen as fast as she can, because she's sure there are several things in there that Molly could use to bludgeon Sherlock.

And really, Mrs Hudson isn't sure she'd blame her.

* * *

John spends far too much of his time looking at Sherlock these days. He has been trying, for _so long_ to deduce the change in his friend, but each and every time, he draws a blank.

They don't have a case. When Sherlock returned, one of the first things to change was the frequency of cases. Perhaps the last year has shaken him a little. Perhaps he is wary of getting tangled up in another web as dark and dangerous as Moriarty's. John knows he has learned a lot from his experiences. He is far more tolerant of his friends' faults than ever before. Perhaps a year cooped up in Molly's flat has forced him to get used to it.

John shakes his head. Sherlock hasn't moved for at least two hours. He's been reading, and not some academic tome full of information about decay rates or genetic make-up, he's reading a _novel_.

Finally, he turns the last page, his eyes scanning across the lines rapidly, and then he closes the book and sets it down on the arm of his chair. He turns to John, who is still watching him.

"What?"

John shakes his head. He's not _sure_ what, that's the trouble.

"Good book?" he asks.

"Fine," Sherlock says disinterestedly. "Why?"

"Just wondering. Never seen you read fiction before."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Yeah," John says softly, turning back to his laptop. "Yeah they have." He taps his finger on the mouse pad and his screensaver disappears and leaves him with a blank blog entry page. He takes a deep breath, his fingers poised over his keyboard, but his head is too full of _stuff_ to be able to write anything at all. He turns around again, and Sherlock is on his phone. Texting.

"What?" Sherlock asks, not looking up.

"I have to know," John says at last. "What happened at Molly's?"

Sherlock puts his phone away, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "You want me to recount fourteen months to you? You want every moment of every day?"

"No, I want to know -" John breaks off. He can't tell Sherlock what he _wants_ to know, because what you want and what you get are two _very_ different things when it comes to Sherlock. "I want to know," he continues, "what she was like to live with."

Sherlock shrugs. "Fine."

"Didn't irritate you?"

"Of course she did."

"But nothing major?"

"No." His tone is more impatient now, and John knows he has to cut to the chase quickly, before boredom cuts this interrogation completely short.

"She's only got a little flat, I'm surprised you weren't getting in each other's way all the time...come to think of it, where did you sleep? The sofa?"

"No, John," Sherlock says with a sigh. "I slept with Molly. It was the most practical course of action."

John's jaw drops and he stares at Sherlock. "Like, once? Or was it a recurring thing?"

"The whole time," Sherlock replies. His expression is growing more suspicious by the second, but John doesn't give a damn. This is _huge_ news.

"So you've actually..." he trails off, not knowing how to broach the subject with Sherlock. Any other bloke and they could just have a lads chat about it, no big deal, but Sherlock's no lad. He's about as far from a lad as you can possibly get. "...You know?"

"No," Sherlock says blankly. "I don't."

"You've...had sex with Molly?"

Sherlock's confused expression drops at once. "Don't be _ridiculous_."

"But you said you -"

"Slept with her, yes John, _slept._ Since when were sleeping and intercourse interchangeable?"

"Hey," John says, his lips stretching into a smile, "If Claudia Schiffer walked in here now, I'm pretty sure I'd swap sleep for...well, anyway. So you and Molly aren't..."

"Aren't _what_?"

"An item?"

"Of course not," Sherlock says, standing up. He takes his scarf and loops it round his neck, giving the ends a sharp tug to tighten it. He pulls on his coat and heads towards the door.

"Where are you going?" John asks.

"Molly's."

"Why?"

"Because I don't have to answer ridiculous questions there."

"No," John says, "Really, why?"

Sherlock shrugs. "No reason."

"Right, I'll...see you later then I guess."

Sherlock disappears down the stairs and after a few seconds, John hears the front door open and close. He chuckles softly to himself. Of _course_ Sherlock didn't spend over a year shagging. It's just not the Sherlock thing to do. John doesn't know whether his entirely innocent 'no reason' is disappointing or wonderful. On the one hand, Sherlock's clearly not going to see Molly for any physical reasons, which is a shame, because that sort of thing would go a long way to making him a bit more relaxed. On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes, the man who never does anything unless there is reason to, is going to see a _girl_ for _no reason_.

It's a development, that's for sure. Maybe, John thinks, Sherlock is finally making the transition from the missing link to a fully fledged human being.

And Molly Hooper is, without a doubt, the reason.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
